The Bench
by DameDitta
Summary: The homeless boy (Sam), The abandoned girl (Rachel),The gay teen (Kurt), The abused boy (Blaine), The transgender (Unique), The juvenile criminal (Puck) and The Prostitute (Santana). This story tells the tale of seven very different teenagers leading seven separate lives and the bench that links them all together in their quest to fulfill a mutual dream. -Trigger heavy-


**Here is the beginnings of a monster of a story.**

**Characters: Santana, Puck, Kurt, Blaine, Rachel, Unique, Sam**

**Rating: M - for all kinds of fucked up shit.**

**Pairings: PuckXKurt, BlaineXSam... others TBA.**

**Disclaimer: I dont not own Glee or it's characters, I am howerever, using them to tell my story.**

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**THE BENCH**

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**_The thing that gets me down is being young in this town, and there's no future in it._**  
**_I don't give a damn about life after death, but I got to get some proof that there's life after birth._**  
**_I want it bad and I want it now, we were born going faster than the limits allow. _**  
**_Tire Tracks and Broken Hearts, that's all we're leaving behind, doesn't matter where we're going, only matter's what we're going to find. _**  
**_- Cast of Whistle Down the Wind._**

**Introduction.**

There is a bench in Lima, Ohio that legend calls the Epiphany Seat.

To look at, the oak wooden panels structured on black chrome legs convinced the rare tourist of its ordinariness. At a length that could seat three fully grown men comfortably and an intimate view of Lima's only lake, a civilian who wasn't a resident in the small town, would see it as only a common bench with its sole purpose to provide respite whilst strolling by the water.

But for the residents of Lima, the bench had played its part in almost everyone's lives at some point over the last 50 years. For this mere wooden seating device was called the Epiphany Seat for a reason. Maybe it was the unusual comfortableness that the hard looking oak provided, perhaps it was the up close view of the blissful lake or possibly it was the aroma of the flowers that scented the air from the park in which it sat that relaxed the town's people, whatever the reason, when people sat on the bench, they began to think.

The thoughts could vary from the innocent and boring to the dark and sinister as their body would mould into the woodwork and there was nothing to distract a person from going deeper and deeper into their minds. No matter what problems drenched their lives, upon leaving the piece of furniture, a goal would be set on defeating the problem, a path drawn out to follow or an answer was conjured to their underline questions. For 50 years, Lima's people had all reported that at some point, whilst residing in the park, looking over the lake, they had an epiphany.

In the early 1960's, a bench seemed to appear out of nowhere and although its appearance caused some town folk's brows to raise in slight intrigue, something as ordinary and plain as a bench overlooking the lake was quickly forgotten about. It was a young boy, no older than 14 who was the first and most famous reporting of the Epiphany Seat. For his encounters with the object were forever more written into the history of the small town in Ohio.

Victor Wilson grew up in Lima Heights, a place notorious for its high level of nefarious activity. It became apparent very early on that he was a fish out of water in the area. Unlike his neighbours, Victor had motivation and an ambitious mind and wanted to put it to good use. He always wanted to feel safe where he lived and the only way he saw that possible was to make the change himself. So one night, when young Victor was strolling through the park after his first day of high school, he came across the lake and by doing so, the bench. The lake was a beautiful sight, with the full moon reflecting off its waters and so Victor took the time out to appreciate it by sitting on the bench.

After a busy day of getting lost between classes and dodging pranks from the older students, Victor Wilson basked in the silence of his own company and as the chirps of the crickets sang, he let himself think things over. At school that day, he had become rather friendly to several other freshmen but once everyone was told to meet and greet each other with information on themselves, everyone backed away when little Victor Wilson begrudgingly revealed that he was from Lima Heights. Students and teachers alike instantly tarred him with the brush that painted drug dealers, prostitutes and other criminals and throughout the rest of the day, Victor's brilliant mind quickly noticed that he was treated lesser than his classmates. No one would bother trying to educate a boy from the Heights, for it would be time wasted and money poorly spent, for everyone knew that the residents of the criminal area usually ended up in prison.

But Victor wanted the change their opinions and to do so, he needed to address the main root of the situation; his area. He could either move away, which lack of funds and no desire to do so by his parents made impossible, or he could work hard to find a solution from within. That night Victor found his dream. He would endure high school and college and become a cop, patrolling his neighbourhood and stopping crime before it began.

So Victor left the bench and did just that, he studied hard and maintained the perfect grades without his teachers help and when he graduated at the top of his class, Victor revisited the bench while deciding on what college to attend. After an hour of deep thinking while looking out at the ducks floating on the lake, he decided to leave the state temporarily to follow his dream. His dream took him to New York City where he studied hard and began working part time with the NYPD. After 5 years away from the Heights, Victor returned as a fully fledged cop and worked closely with his policing partner, Mary Holmes, in tackling the ever growing problems in Lima Heights. After 10 years, Victor Wilson was a respected name throughout all of Ohio and crime ratings had dropped over 70% when he was advised the run for Mayor of his town. Once again, when at a crossroads, Victor paid another visit to the bench. 2 years later, the crowds cheered as Major Wilson of Lima, Ohio was coroneted.

Mary Holmes came across the bench whilst trying the calm her mind and tears over losing her partner in the force and as she took her seat, she wandered why she was so saddened. She lay in her uniform for almost 3 hours as her brain unscrambled itself and told her she was in love with the man and as she got off the bench, she had decided to tell him so.

Mary Wilson visited the bench again after 5 years of marriage to the mayor in tears over her fast growing feeling over the mansion's garden, Rodriguez. She sat and asked for a sign on what to do and how to chose between her husband and her secret lover who's child she was carrying. Rubbing her belly and calming her nerves, Mary stood from the bench with a decision made and left the park to live her life.

Victor Holmes paid his old thinking spot a visit after losing his position as mayor and husband with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and a heart full of rage. The new mayor had no desire to keep an eye on the Heights, assuming the problem had fixed itself and all of Victor's hard work was unravelling before his very eyes. His pregnant wife had ran away with the real father of her child in the middle of the night, leaving Victor lonely, broken and drunk. He had sat on the bench from dusk to dawn one final time before going home and putting a bullet into his brain.

Since the bench had played a massive part in the rise and fall of the late Victor Wilson, many people in the town branded the ordinary furniture in the park as the Epiphany Seat and soon became a place where the residents would visit for some much needed thinking time. Laura Andrews sat down to think of which house she should buy after a promotion at work. Shelby Cocaron sat in a trance on the wood for hours as she contemplated hiring out her womb for money from two gay men. Elizabeth Smith watch over the lake as she pondered the idea of allowing the local mechanic, Burt Hummel to take her on a date. The bench played home to Norah Puckerman after her husband left her as the thought of aborting her little girl flickered through her head. People from all across town would come to the bench in their time of inspiration searching and leave with a plan, a path, a dream.

As the residents grew older, a new generation flocked in in the form of their children, nieces and nephews and with the new crowd came a new role for the Epiphany Seat. The new occurrence started a couple of years ago when Noah Puckerman, a sixteen year old trouble maker decided the try out the oracle inducing furniture. However, half way through his deep thinking he was interrupted by a drunken girl, no older than himself as she did what no other had done before; she sat on the bench that was occupied by another.

For the first time since Victor Wilson's story, two people sat on the bench and instead of silently pondering over life's roads, Noah Puckerman and the drunk girl, Santana Lopez, vocalised their problems with each other, both of which promised not the judge and offered advice in return. In the new age, the internet quickly spread the story of the bench's new use and all the younger folk in Lima now saw the seat as a place not only to go for thinking, but a place for sharing your troubles with a stranger, where no judgement was passed and only guidance was given.

Every week or so, the bench occupied two confused souls who told their seating buddy everything other than their name. Alias' where used to protect identities and a mutual respect for the bench had the residents of Lima never breaching the secrecy. Of course, remaining anonymous in a small town like Lima was impossible and most folk knew each other, but in those minutes together, sitting, speaking and connecting, no judgement was passed. The bench was now a place to seek refuge and guidance from a stranger before walking off back to their own separate lives.

The bench sometimes only ever played host to a person once in their lives or maybe a couple times, but there were kids, teens and adults alike who had become frequent visitors of the park to ponder the difficult choices in life.

From the homeless boy struggling to survive, to the talented girl who nobody wants. The gay teen bullied due to ignorance of others and the dapper boy in direct fire of his father's rage. From the transgender young woman who the town deems confused and the juvenile criminal with the heart of gold to the girl who sells herself in hopes to feel loved.

This story tells the tale of seven very different teenagers leading seven separate lives and the bench that links them all together in their quest to fulfil a mutual dream.

**Chapter 1: Meet the Gang.**

**Wade 'Unique' Adams:**

When I'm on stage it's the only time I feel safe and happy. Maybe it is the raised platform that effectively separates me from everyone else that eases my fears, maybe it's because people become so compelled by my powerful voice that it clouds their judgement, but I think the reason is because I finally get to be the true me.

The Dayton club in which I'm currently singing in is seedy and full of lonely, desperate men, young and old, looking for a sleazy hookup. This isn't my ideal place to perform, but at least nobody knows me here and that helps a bit with my insecurities. It sucks that I have to travel this far out from Lima just to sing on a stage to a crowd, but Lima refuses to let me dress like me if in a situation that demands attention be on me. Maybe they were confused or maybe they were full of hate over my life choices that they tried snatch away my limelight as punishment. Perhaps they were just protecting me from directly putting me in the firing line of the ignorant, but somehow, I doubt that last one very much. I've heard the hushed whispers, seen the dirty looks, the sheltering of their children's eyes if I dare step out my house as the true me. At least here, in Dayton, nobody knew the child my home town demanded I be. Here I was 'Unique Adams, the powerful diva from a few towns over' and that was all I ever wanted. Although it isn't due to their open mind attitude, hell no, these patrons I perform to have no idea. I know it's built on a lie, an avoidance of truth, but here I feel like I belong. Well, more so than in Lima.

"A round of applause for the beautiful Miss Unique Adams" the club owner, and the only person in the establishment who knows the truth about me, calls out over a separate microphone once my set is complete.

I curtsy graciously at my adoring crowd and even blow kisses while caught up in the euphoria. In hind sight, this was probably a bad move on my behalf as one of my invisible kisses are accidentally directed straight at somebody.

Through the grapevine, I heard that the man who received my kiss, and I say man loosely for he was no older than me, is called Ryder. Unlike the other's in the bar, Ryder never seems to be on the hunt for drunken girls, instead he is usually dragged along by his father and his buddies. Roz Washington, the club owner told me on several occasions that Ryder would sit in the corner sulking until I came on stage to perform. Then he would sit up straight, eyes cemented on me with a dreamy look on his face. I never saw the look personally, the stage lighting made it difficult to see my crowd, but I had no reason to doubt Roz, she had truly been a good friend to me this past year.

And now I had just blown him a kiss and if the observations were accurate, I had inexplicably just given him false hope. Ryder, with warm brown eyes and a sandy brunette old school Beiber style haircut, was as beautiful as they came in my opinion and if I had been anyone but me, I would have jumped at a chance of interaction. But of course I am me, and I decide to flee.

"Unique?" the voice comes from behind me as I try run from the stage to the back room. I've never heard the voice before but know before turning around who it is.

I was right.

"Hello Poser." I say in response with a slight sassy tone to my voice. Maybe if I scare him away with my pretend personality, I wont be so broken when I scare him away for other reasons.

He shuffles on the spot and wipes his hands over his worn out jeans, presumably trying the rid himself on the sweat that gathered through nerves. I can't blame him, I'm nervous too and subtly wipe my clammy hands over my golden dress in hopes it looks like I'm just straightening the garment out.

"You were incredible tonight." he says in a sort of breathy voice. "Every night actually."

The butterflies in my stomach and the blush I feel heating my cheeks prove how much I like the boy in front of me. Which is why it is so heart breaking for me to this. But to protect myself, I have to.

"Not interest." I say coldly before turning away to make a dash for the changing rooms. Ryder was persist or brave, I'll give him that, as he grabs my wrist to stop me running.

"Please." he says desperately. "Just a coffee or something. I really want to get to know you." he still has hold of my wrist as if he thinks I would sprint if he lets go. In all fairness, he's probably right.

"I'm transgender." I blurt out. Best get this over and done with before I get crushed by the inevitable rejection. Besides, this young man seemed like a nice boy and I don't feel right lying to him. I wait patiently for the rejection or the insult to come. I know he wont attack me for misleading him as out of the corner of my eye, I see Roz loitering close by.

"I don't understand." he comments in a confused tone. "What does that mean?"

"It means I was born a man." I tell him rudely and luckily I do, because my harsh attitude masks the hurt I feel when he snatches his hand from my wrist at the sentence.

"Are you serious?" he asks in a shaky voice as he combs a trembling hand through his adorable hair. Instead of crying like I feel like doing, I simply raise a disinterest brow to him before walking away. He doesn't object this time.

I look in the mirror of the dressing room in a sort of trance. I go through my usual ritual of removing myself from my appearance on auto pilot. As I pull off my jet black wig, I remember Ryder's adoring face as he received my kiss. As I shuffle out my dress and replace it with jeans and a polo shirt, I remember his eagerness to take me out, his pleading. As I take of my armour that is my makeup, I visualise his face when I told me who I am. If I had watched the interaction between two people that wasn't me, his paling face and retreating behaviour may have made me laugh. Instead, it makes me feel hallow. I don't cry though, it's not like he was the first boy to like me before the ultimate discovery. I'm use to it now.

Back in the costume of my boy self, -for this was the custom and the wig and the heels were my real clothes-, I look at myself one more time in the full length mirror to make sure I meet my parents requirements.

"We love you for whoever you are Wade" they had said, whether it be refusal or general forgetfulness to use that name, I don't know. "But make sure you come back into town in normal clothes." what was probably meant as a supportive gesture just proved how much my parents didn't understand no matter how much they promised they did. The clothes I'm wearing now, the jeans and shirt, aren't normal clothes to me. I feel like I am in drag, dressed like this. And I will have to remain dressed in such a horrible way until Unique is free to let her beautiful hair down once more.

I dream of escaping this hell.

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**Blaine Anderson:**

I know it's going to be a physical one as soon as the shouts overpower my guitar strings from two levels away. This is a common occurrence in my house ever since the recession hit us hard. My father is still stinking rich but his problem is that he is greedy. Greedy people are not nice people, they can be dangerous in their sociopath ways to get what they want. When my father doesn't get his own way, he gets violent and when he gets violent, I'm the punching bag. Obviously this isn't an ideal situation, but I prefer taking the beating than watching my mother take them. I might be short, but I'm firm and solid and have become somewhat immune to my dad's blows. I actually think he enjoys hitting me these days. Before I came out as gay, he used to apologise after his fist struck my face. Now, I only get a sneer. But maybe that's because I no longer curl up in a ball and cry, now I take it like a man and he hates it.

So do I, but I have no choice.

It's like my dad is taunting me because as I strum harder on my guitar his voice gets louder, like he's trying to challenge me from the other side of the house. He does this often, tries to assert his dominance, prove to himself that he is all man, a highly successful man in charge of the world. I call it small-penis syndrome. Surely he is trying to overcompensate for something. Anyway, he challenges me often, like he is doing now, trying to win the battle of sound over my guitar, but I won't satisfy him with a battle unless summoned properly. I may be his punch bag, but I am not owned by him.

"Blaine Devon Anderson!"

There's the correct words. When my name is called, I know ignoring it results in bad news for both me and my mother. To ignore my name being called, in my father's eyes, is the most disrespectful thing I can do. And to a man who is suffering from small-penis syndrome, being disrespected by a teenager results in punishment.

I put my guitar down, which ironically is a gift from my father, and walk out of my room and make my way down the marble staircase. I pass our maid, Cho, on the way and the Asian helper gives me a sad smile. She's been around long enough to know the routine too. I can't help but feel more sorry for her than I do for myself. At least I can understand the venom my father's spews, Cho's English is broken at best and to her it must just sound like ferocious roaring.

"There you are." My father greets with a genuine smile, arms open wide in greeting as I step into the parlour of our unnecessarily huge house. I glance at my mother who looks haggard and defeated. "Sonny boy, I have a favour to ask of you."

My father suffers from bipolar disorder meaning his moods change sporadically and drastically without warning. Usually, when he's had his medication, the transition from one emotion to the next is a lot smoother, but my father rarely takes them because he thinks it makes him less of a man. This small-penis thing really controls his life. Luckily it's not generic. I'm happy with what I'm packing and I don't need to act like a caveman to prove my masculinity. Sometimes I think my father knows this and is envious and that's why I'm his prime target. But mostly I think it's because he knows I wont hit him back. He may be a violent, greedy, selfish man, but he is still my father.

"Yes, sir?" I ask with all the politeness my mother has raised me with. I'll remain dignified even if I am to get struck for no apparent reason, but only because my mother is present. It's hard enough seeing her youngest son get hit, it would be crippling if I lost myself and dignity because of it. After every beating I receive, my mother nurses my wounds in secret. She whispers false promises of escape that go forgotten the next morning. I'm unsure whether it's love or fear that keeps her here, either way, it's incredibly unhealthy.

"You are to marry Mr. Cohen-Chang's daughter." my father commands in a military tone.

"I'm only 16 and very, very gay." I remind him as politely as I can, although I can't hide the rebellious glint in my eye which my father picks up on.

It's not like I try and egg him on to strike me, but since I know it's coming, I might as well deserve it. My father hates that I'm gay. I don't think he hates gay's in general, -he seems to sigh sadly when that Kurt Hummel gets bullied for being homosexual-, he just doesn't want his son to be one. He often blabbers on about needing an heir to the Anderson empire. He either genuinely forgets or refuses to acknowledge that my older brother Cooper has a set of twins of his own. Cooper and my father hate each other, mainly because Cooper proved his masculinity by being a great husband and father, succeeding where my father fails miserably. Cooper's been written off and disowned, and I'm consumed by jealousy because of it.

"This is not up for discussion." My father says sternly, piercing me with a dark stare. I look back at him with an almost amused expression on my face, so subtly that my mother has no idea, but my father, who's looking for it, see's it immediately. "Tina's family have a lot of money Son, it would be wise to marry into such money." he informs me as if we are struggling or something.

I'm not marrying a random woman, it's as simply as that. Now there are two ways of delivering this not so shocking news to my father. I can politely decline the offer, resulting in a punch to my left cheek or I can beg him too rethink, which will result in my right cheek being struck. Either way, I know I'm about to get a blow, so I go for option three.

"Why don't you marry her then?" I ask flatly.

The result of my words are instant. My mother gasps and covers her mouth with a dainty hand. My father's face turns a comical shade of purple and before I know it, I'm on my ass, blood pouring from my nose. I bring my hand up to my face and breath a sigh of relief that it's not broken, just bloodied, and look up at my father's angry face. Back in the day, his face would have turned to shock by now, but that was a long time ago, and the face he is currently sporting is one that tells me he is nowhere near done.

He lifts his leg and crashes his size 10's into my chest, making me fall completely onto my back. This is routine and I know his next move, so I instinctively tense my stomach just in time for the swift kicks to my abdomen . The blows no longer hurt like they used to, but my mother's sobs as she watches her baby get beaten stabs me every time. I know she hates this and wishes she could defend me, but the reality is, she is pathetic and weak. But I love my mother, so I'll let her nurse my injuries her husband is causing, because this is just another day in the life of Blaine Anderson.

I dream of escaping this hell.

* * *

**Noah Puckerman:**

Eating isn't a crime. Sleeping in a warm bed isn't a crime. Theft in order to maintain such lifestyle however, apparently is. Which is why my ass is fucking freezing from sitting on a cold cement bed with nothing more than a paper thin sheet for warmth.

I'm use to it now though, and if the bed were to have an actual mattress on it, their would probably be a permanent grove of my body in it. I'm a regular visitor to this particularly cell and so is my cellmate, a gruff, bearded, menacing looking man. We are all regulars here in Lima Heights police station.

I hate the menacing man sitting opposite me. In a lot of ways, he's the reason I'm here, not that he knows it of course. His name is Charlie and ironically he sells heroin and his favourite customer is Norah Puckerman, my mother. Charlie doesn't know my mother's last name so he has no idea who I am to her, to him I'm just some silly little kid causing trouble around the estate. But I only cause trouble because of him.

I'm a thief, I'll hold my hands up to that straight away. I'm not proud, but I own it. I've swiped wallets from pockets, items from homes, watches from wrists, stereos from cars, the lot. It's not uncommon to do in my area. Lima Heights is where the useless are born to die. But what sets me apart from other criminals, is the reason why I do this stuff, and in that, I keep my humanity.

"Noah Puckerman, follow me." one of the police officers say, opening the metal bar barrier for me to escape. Even though it's hardly an escape for I know I will be back here soon enough. Yet I know I'm free tonight, because I know this officer. This officer is my second cousin Louie Schmitt.

Nobody in the sanction knows we are related, and that's the way we like it, so I keep me head down as he leads me into a secluded room. I'm still handcuffed due to the officer who arrested me, yet I don't know why. I didn't put up a fight or anything, I never do. I accept the shit that is thrown my way.

"Listen Noah." Louie practically growls to me once we are alone. "I'm getting fucking fed up with your shit. There's only so many times your paperwork can 'accidentally' go missing before you - we get busted."

"Dude, chillax, I'll try not to get caught next time." I huff as I take a seat on one of the stupid blue plastic chairs offered to me. They're highly uncomfortable, but I suspect they are built that way on purpose. Louie's chair seems plush and comfortable.

"How about you just stop stealing?" Louie suggests and I snort at the ridiculous idea. There's a reason Louie lets me off all the time and it's not just because we are family.

My mother gave birth to two children, an awesome sex stud boy, that's me, and an annoying little brat, that'll be my baby sister Sarah. I say gave birth to instead of raised because my mother is incapable of raising even her arm in her current Heroin addiction. We have no gas, electric, running water, clean clothes or food because all our funds go into a syringe. That's where my job comes in.

I tried getting a proper job, but my location works against me. Nobody wants to hire a youth from the Heights. I started small, stealing books from the library that my sister needed for school or swiping some meat from the supermarket for a meal that evening. Then Ma started getting red letters with final warning for rent and shit, things that I couldn't steal from shops. Clothes, books, shoes and food wasn't enough after a while and actual cash had to come in. I tried steal more clothes from high end shops in Lima mall to sell at a heavily discounted price, but that only got me so far.

It was when April Rhodes, the town drunk, came to me to buy some shit when things changed. She put her bag down on the table next to me as she rummaged through my goods. She was sort of a black widow of the town, married into money and her husbands just mysteriously died all the time. Her bag was designer and open and in a desperate attempt to save my home, I peaked inside. It all went down hill from there. I took $560 dollars from her that day without her buying a single thing. That bought another month of shelter over me and my little sister's head.

And it went on like that. If my sister wanted a new bike or I wanted a new video game to fit in with my mates, I would take something that wasn't mine. If Sarah began losing weight and crying through the night that she was hungry, I would take whatever I could find. Once in a while I would get caught when I got over confident or sloppy, landing me in my current predicament. But refusing to think of the alternative, a couple of hours in the cell here and there is a small price to pay.

"Just go home, Noah." Louie sighs, throwing his pen onto the table and slouching back into his comfortably looking seat. I give him a pointed look which he doesn't get, so instead I wave my contained hands at him. "Oh!" he says dumbly, rattling around his large key chain to find the right apparatus to remove my cuffs.

"See you soon LouLou." I tease once I'm free to go. He rolls his eyes at me, knowing that the statement holds more truth than he is willing to accept. And unless I win the lottery or something, our next meeting is inevitable.

I leave the police station with a smug look on my face, in which the other police officers sneer at me for, before making my way by foot back to my ratty little apartment complex. I have a beaten up truck, but it's out of gas and I haven't got any money to top her up thanks to getting busted today. In order to get to myself and Sarah to school tomorrow, I'm going to need cash.

Without a second thought, I accidentally bump into a naïve looking woman, who looks way too posh for these parts, and easily swipe her purse without her noticing. Someone does notice though, dark sunken dead eyes watch me as I stroll down the street. The eyes belong to a teenage girl around my age, waiting on the street corner for her next appointment. Her name to me as well as her clients is Snix, but to everyone else, it's Santana Lopez. We look at each other from across the street. We know each other's secrets, fears and dreams, yet we walk past each other like we are complete strangers.

I dream of escaping this hell.

* * *

**Santana Lopez:**

I scrub my knuckles hard to remove as much blood as possible. It happened again, in fact, it's happening often now and ever time I still cry. I don't know why tears are falling down my cheeks, why my throat is impossibly tight and why my nose has begun to run. I should be used to this by now, be numb to such emotion. After all, they deserve it. But it seems my conscious feeds on guilt, and it's a glutton.

I don't even know the woman who's face I just smashed in. just some stuck up privilege bitch with a bad attitude. I know I've built up a certain kind of reputation and people are bound to call me out on it, but every time they do, I snap. And the result is also the same. Me in my bathroom, tear stained, scrubbing my knuckles of blood that drained away long before I stop.

My father always told me, "Protect your person, Protect your heart Santana Lopez."

And I might not have a lot to protect as I lost my dignity and self respect along the way, but I do have my Papi's reputation to respect. Not that he has a very good one seeing as he's locked up for committing murder. But my father is my hero and when some stuck up middle class bitch walks past me in the street and calls me a slut, I'm going to protect my person and smash the skank's face in. Even if she is right in her comment.

Because as I tidy up my appearance, wipe away my tears and smooth down my ruby red zip up dress, it's all because tonight I will please a man. A stranger. For cash.

"I'm going out." I call out to the broken shell that was once my mama.

A woman who used to be so full of life, devoted to her family now sits in a dust gathered armchair in our living room, staring at a blank wall like she does everyday. My mama is broken because her true love, her family, is broken aswell. And it's all my fault.

From the age of seven until I was fourteen, I was molested by my Uncle Carlos Suez. I don't even remember how it began, how my mama's older brother turned from an angel to a devil. I've heard whispers that I clung to him too much, provoked him, but even I know this isn't true. How could a seven year old little girl seduce a fully grown man? The idea is absurd and sickening.

Of course, at the time, I knew no different and had promised Uncle Carlos to keep everything a secret, for if I didn't, the state would send me away. So I let his hands roam, then his mouth until he finally spoiled me completely. It happen about once a month for seven years and I let it happen. Even when I reached 12 and became aware how wrong it was, I remained silent. Right towards the end actually, I sought him out twice. This is why whispers began about me seducing him from the beginning. But I didn't. He found me, groomed me, nurtured me and loved me and in the end, I let him. I knew it was wrong, taboo, forbidden and illegal, but I truly believed Uncle Carlos loved me and I enjoyed being loved so I let him do what he wanted to me to prove it.

Obviously my Papi didn't feel the same way that day when we walked in on us. I don't really remember much of that night, even though it was only four years ago. I remember me crying and confessing everything. I remember Uncle Carlos' hands around my throat. I remember blood splattering my tear stained face. I remember the ambulance and cops arriving. I remember a body bag and a stretcher to carry out my uncles corpse and handcuffs, guns and officers surrounding my Papi.

I never saw my Papi after that night and I never saw uncle Carlos either. Two men that loved me in completely different ways were gone. Taken from me within the hour. I was alone. My mama had a nervous breakdown which she has never recovered from and I find myself standing on street corners like I am right now, searching and wanting for someone to love me again. Maybe one of these men that pick me up will love me like my uncle did. Their actions say they do but after the hour is up, I'm left alone again for another night, with nothing but a handful of bills that sum up my worth.

But now, as I wait, in the cold, hopelessly for the next man to drive up, I no longer get that excited, anxious feeling of anticipation. Because I finally realise that the faceless stranger wont love me the way his actions show. I know I'm nothing more than a warm, moist hole for them to manhandle for a while. I've become numb to it. I don't feel dirty, although people say I should, because I was spoilt at the tender age of seven and to me, this is normal. There is no emotion there on either side and I worry that I'll never feel again. I've forgotten what it feels like to be loved, and in that, I miss Uncle Carlos. And then I should feel ashamed for thinking that, but I can't. I can't feel anything.

I watch Puck, Lima Heights purse snatcher walk past me and not long after that, the homeless teenage boy that lives under the bridge and it reminds me that I'm not alone in this fucked up town. I don't deserve special treatment above these people just because I'm a victim of abuse. We are all victims of something or another and we need to learn to deal with it, because no-one gives a shit about us.

No-one.

Not the police.

Not my mama.

And not the overweight, balding, middle age man who has just pulled up in front of me, licking his lips and leering at me like I'm fresh meat. But of course, I am to him. Nothing more than a filthy slut who will rock his world in an attempt to feel something again, because when you feel, you heal.

I wink, because I know they like that. Bite my bottom lip nervously as if to pretend to be innocent, because they like that too and I step into his car, which smells strongly of onion, and he droves us off. And for the next hour or so, I wait patiently for the feeling of love to surround me. But of course, it never does.

I dream of escaping this hell.

* * *

**Rachel Berry:**

I always believed that being a part of something special made me special and the fact is that I am special and yet no one seems to care. Especially nobody in this town. Lima is a place where gays are hated, gossip spreads like wildfire and the town folk have more respect for a stupid bench than they do a person. So no, Lima isn't special, it's a dull backwards town that sucks the life and ambition out of a person until they are nothing but robots. Living on autopilot, happy with their substandard life and never leaving. Demeaning those who dream bigger and make them feel tiny, minuscule. That what this town does to me. They don't want me become of my ambition yet they don't want me gone because the minute I escape the shackles of Lima, Ohio, I've made it.

This town is the reason for the tightness in my chest.

Lima has no theatres or any outlet for a person with creativity in fact. It's just buildings and shops and a restaurant or two. One of the restaurant's Breadstix has just fired me from dishwashing duty. I'm not entirely sure why they got rid of me, but by doing so, they've trapped me further. I hate dishwashing, I'm a talented star and deserve better, but at the moment, dishwashing is the only way to save up money to run away from this place. Now I don't even have that. BreadstiX didn't want me, they just turned their backs on me without a care in the world. It makes me feel worthless.

Being fired is the reason for my constricted throat.

When I'm sad, I get thirsty. But my hands are trembling so much that I can't even keep the water in my glass, so I just curl on in my bed, in the foetal position, my cloudy, watery eyes fixed on the two crumpled up pieces of paper in front of me. Both are rejection letters. One from NYU and the other from Parsons. Apparently I'm a very talented individual but the demand and talent was impeccably high this year. Basically what they are saying is that I'm not good enough and they don't want me. These aren't the only rejection letter's I've received but these are my big ones. The ones that keep me from New York. I have about 12 rejection letters, all starting the same. 'Miss Rachel Berry…' and then they vary in ways to let me down gently, but all I see is that I'm worthless.

These letter's are the reason for my trembling hands.

At a time when I'm feeling as down as I am today, I would usually seek comfort in my boyfriend's arms, because he is one of the few people who understand and appreciates my talent and my being. But coincidentally, he happened to leave me earlier this week. Jesse had come to my house on Monday, just before I was to go to school to tell me our relationship wasn't working. I called him out on his insanity through my tears and he revealed he loved someone else. Some woman called Harmony. Who just so happens to look and act like some weird clone of mine. In that, I guess I should be flattered, but I'm not. I'm heartbroken. Jesse doesn't want me. And he was the only one who ever showed me interest and now I have nobody.

Jesse is the reason for my runny nose.

I can't go to my two gay dad's about my pain, because they wouldn't understand. It's the type of thing a girl needs her mother for. Unfortunately for me, I have no idea where mine is. I don't even have any idea who she is and my dads have no pictures of her or a name. All I know is that she gave birth to me and sold me for money when I was still a newborn because she had big dreams. I understand the ambition, I assume I inherited it from her, but at the cost of a baby? Of me? I personally think it's too much sacrifice but obviously not for my mom. My mother didn't want me and traded me in for an escape and it makes me feel worthless, hollow and empty.

My mother is the reason for my tears.

I have no friends at my school who can help put me back together. It's pretty ridiculous actually, I'm 18 and haven't a single person that I can call my friend. But that doesn't necessarily make me feel too sad because the people around here are shallow minded and aren't driven. I have no reason to still be in this stupid place but have no way of escaping. But I do have an outlet.

When I feel sad, which is embarrassingly often, I turn on my webcam, stare straight into the lens and sing my heart out. I'm an amazing singer, I have many Youtube viewers that think so, unfortunately none of those come from Lima, Ohio or have the power to save me. But still, it's my passion and I'll keep doing it until I finally get recognised. I refuse to let Lima diminish my flame, I refuse to drown and get washed away. Everybody's dies but not everybody lives. On your tomb stone you have the date you were born and the date you die and the only thing that separates the two is a little line. Some people, most people in Lima actually, might be happy with that, but I'm not. I want to make something of my life, leave a legacy, be remembered. But how is it possible to be remembered when I die if I'm not even remembered while I'm alive?

My phone buzzes and interrupts my pity party. I know who it is before I even check. Only four people have my number; my dad's who are downstairs, my former employer who probably deleted my number and Jesse. I don't want to talk to him. I don't care what he has to say. Even if it's to beg for my forgiveness which I doubt it is, I refuse to hear him out. In fact, I'm completely fed up of my cell phone. It only ever rings when delivering bad news and I'm sick of it.

I jump off of my bed, almost tripping over my Dalmatian onesie feet and grabbed my phone. I glance at the screen for a millisecond and it confirms it's Jesse the Betrayer. Running on complete negative emotion, I furiously wipe my tears off my face and stomp to my bedroom window. Opening it, and breaking a nail in the process, I literally scream in the open air and hurl my phone as hard as I can out of my life, just like the world had done with me. Chucked away the worthless.

If I was less distressed, I would have apologised to the homeless teenager who nearly got hit by my device, but I can't so I ignore him, scream again and slam my window shut. My father's must have heard me because they bring me a glass of water, but don't ask what's wrong. They never do and I'm not sure why. But it reminds me that I, Rachel Berry, am alone.

I dream of escaping this hell.

* * *

**Kurt Hummel:**

Marred. Blemished. Flawed. Stained. Disfigured. Marked. Tarnished. Tainted. Scratched. Spoiled. Burned. Sliced. Destroyed.

Those are the adjectives used to described my skin from the effects of hatred.

I'm currently sporting a black eye concealed by makeup, Dave Karofsky gave me this because I refused to bow before him. I'm pretty sure my baby finger on my left hand is broken, this is from Azimio shoving me into a locker and I tried to protect my face. My back is bruised because the jocks on the football team caught me near the locker room and assumed I perved on them and tried throw me into the dumpster. Maybe the bruise is my own fault because if I hadn't of struggled so much, the throw would have been clean, as it was, I landed on the metal frame.

So I'm marked by all these different boys in completely different ways, but all for the same reason. I am gay.

I haven't attacked them, threatened their mothers or kicked their dogs. All I do is find men, definitely not those specific ones, attractive. Apparently this is enough for them to treat me like some sub human. Their slurs and fists have broken my skin but never broke my spirit, until recently.

Nothing specific happened, I didn't wake up one day and become weak, but I finally broke. Actually that's not entirely true, I still remember the conversation that changed everything perfectly. My strong façade, the hold your head high attitude, it all crumbled without me even noticing and before I knew it, I was on my tormentors side. We had a mutual hatred.

That hatred is me.

Accessorising my bruises and broken bones are scratches to my neck, slices to my arms and burns to my thighs. These are the effects of a different hatred. These are the effects of self-hatred.

I wasn't always like this, I used to love being me. Gay, flawless and fabulous. Screw the haters, I'm better than them anyway. Only I wasn't. Because if I was, someone, just one single person, anybody, would have noticed that too. Only nobody did and it made me question myself. That, along with the daily punches, kicks and slushie facials anyway. I'm just tired of fighting now and then I get angry at myself for giving up and punish myself. I slice my arms with scissors because I'm unlovable. I burn my thighs with straightening irons because I'm different. I claw at my neck because I'm lonely. I hate myself because I am gay.

What I can control though is how I look. Why should bullied disfigure me when I can do it better than them? And that's why I'm in my en suit bathroom, bandaging up fresh wounds on my arms to hide from my family. They don't need to be exposed to the self hate.

I make my way up stairs, passed my stepbrother, Finn, who is deep in conversation with someone on the phone, and walk into the kitchen to help my step mom with dinner. Carole married my father a few years ago and after my mom died when I was eight, I doubted I could ever love a woman again. Carole proved me wrong. She also makes my dad incredibly happy which is a bonus. Her son, Finn is one of the few teenage boys in this town who aren't homophobic. Well, not anymore. It took him a while, but he's all good now and I consider him my full brother, and he does with me as well. My father is sitting in his usual seat in the lounge, screaming at the TV, because some man didn't catch the flying ball or whatever. Finn usually joins in with the tirade of noise, but today he seems to focused on his conversation. His frown and constipated look means his worried and confused.

"Kurt, can you pass me the pasta please, sweetie?" Carole asks, pointing towards to massive saucepan as if I need help finding it.

I quickly run to the fridge and pretend to look busy. "Sorry Carole, my hands are full here." I answer in a fake strained voice, hoping she will buy my lie.

"Don't worry honey, I've got it."

This happens often and I'm able to deflect and avoid pretty well. I'm occasionally asked to move and shift heavy items or objects but due to the slashes up my arms and the bruises on my shoulders, I'm unable to without giving away my injuries. My family don't know I get bullied. Well, Finn knows a little since we go to school together, but I've begged him to keep quiet. Finn knows my trick to avoid picking up stuff so he gives me a sad look as he gets off the phone. He has no idea that the wounds on my arms that restrict me the most are self inflict. He doesn't even know they exist, no one does. I wear several layers of clothing at any one time to prevent anyone seeing.

"Noah got arrested again." Finn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Carole sighs sadly and my father groans. I don't know what noise or action I'm suppose to make to this news so remain looking into the refrigerator staring at cheese.

Noah Puckerman is Finn's best friend. I don't know how I feel about him. On one hand, he's a criminal and has ruined many lives through his crimes but on the other hand, he's not homophobic and he's never done anything personally to me. Well not that he knows of anyway. The truth is, he caused many of my self inflicted scars.

"I'll take the garbage out." I offer stupidly, trying to find an excuse to escape having to react. I'm thankful that some player on TV did something my father approves of, because his cheers block out the crashing sound when I drop the black bag on the floor due to the sharp pain in my arm when I try pick it up.

Happy my family are preoccupied with criminals, food and football, I drag the bag to the front door and out of the house and down the path. When I reach the silver trash can, I lift the lid and breath deeply before lifting the heavy garbage bag and dumping it inside. I regret it instantly. I feel my healing cuts rip open and the burning sensation is almost cruel. I hiss in pain and lifted my cardigan sleeve and my shirt sleeve and wince at my bandage which is soaking up the blood, leaving giant red streaks in it's usual clean, white place. I know I need to change them immediately, before dinner. I fold down my sleeves and straighten myself up when I see the homeless boy who lurks around. I stick up my nose to him, feeling vulnerable about who much he's seen and sauntered back into my home, where I will go down into my bathroom, take off my bandage and pull open my new wounds further for my stupidity.

I dream of escaping this hell.

* * *

**Sam Evans:**

I don't hate my life. I strongly dislike that word anyway. It sounds so spiteful on the tongue yet people throw it around so carelessly that it's lost its impact and power. Neither do I love my life. That's a word I really like. It's once again thrown around carelessly and lost it's beauty. I'm not indifference about my life because that would mean I don't care, but I do. I guess the word I would use is 'settled'. I've settled for the hand that God had provided me and it's up to my to play it as best I can.

I used to like my life a lot, up until last year. I had a loving mom and a hard working dad. My younger siblings, a set of twins named Stevie and Stacy idolised me and there was even a cat that we owned who enjoyed leaving us presents on the welcome mat several times a month. I guess I still have all these people, my problem is, I just don't know where any of them are.

It was a normal day, sunny I think, but I'm not too sure. Anyway the weather isn't important. Like I said it was a normal day to begin with. I woke up, had breakfast and waved goodbye to my family as I grabbed my guitar and dashed out the door for school. Completely normal. And then everything went a bit odd and even to this day, I'm not sure why it happened, what caused it, nor can I see any warning signs leading up to it. I came home from school and the welcome mat where our cat usually left presents had disappeared. It didn't really phase me at the time, the thing needed a good clean anyway. No, what did phase me is when I walked into my house to praise my mom for cleaning the missing item, I realised the mat wasn't the only thing missing. She was missing too. As was the furniture in the lounge, the cutlery in the drawers, Stevie and Stacy, food from the refrigerator, the actually refrigerator, the beds, the cat, my families clothes, my father and even the light bulbs.

My bedroom remained untouched as I wandered the bare house that had been so full of life that morning wondering to myself where everything and everyone was. I sat in my room, perched on my bed and strummed my guitar for hours waiting their return. Hours turned to days, which turned to weeks and still they never showed up. I tried phoning their cells but they were disconnected. I phoned my grandparents, aunts and uncles, but they hadn't seen them. I was going to phone the cops to file a missing persons report when I received several letters threatening the sieve the house, but I was scared they would put me in a home. Plus I knew my family weren't in danger or were kidnapped or anything as all their belongings had gone with them.

Except me.

I sold practically all my stuff, including my bed for some cash to buy food. I lived without gas and electricity for months before a group of people burst into my house, while I was out busking the streets, and deemed the house unoccupied and by the time I came home the front door was bolted shut and I couldn't get in.

I don't know why it took me so long, but it was about a week after sleeping under a bridge that I realised that I was homeless and without a family. I didn't cry though, I got angry for a while, but never cried. What use were my tears? They wouldn't bring anything back. So I did the only thing I could think of doing, I adjusted.

I go to school when I can, steal clothes of washing lines in the next town over. Relieve myself in bushes, collect water in school and steal food from the cafeteria kitchens. I sleep under the bridge after roaming all of Lima until I'm completely shattered and am able to slumber throughout the whole night peacefully. It isn't the best life, but it isn't the worse either. Some people have it far worse than I do, and I see them all as I walk around my town at nightfall.

In Lima Heights I see the convict bouncing down the steps out of the police station, he has a smile on his face which people think he wears because authorities don't phase him. I know that smile is actually a sign of relief that he's free to go another day to support his sister. His name is Noah Puckerman, but to me he is Puck.

In the same area I walk past the most appealing prostitute the town has to offer as she leans against the sign post, revealing as much skin as possible. People usually turn away from her flesh in disgust or drool over it in lust. No-one seems to think that maybe she is at that corner, baring herself, waiting for someone to finally see her for who she really is and love her unconditionally. I see it though. Her name is Santana Lopez, but to me she is Snix.

As I walk along the deserted road, I see a car drive slowly passed me. The vehicle is driving so slowly because the driver doesn't want to reach her destination. I can tell that she would do anything to go back to wherever she had just came from but she can't. She is trapped in a town where everyone refusing to ever see her for who she is. Trapped in a costume. His name is Wade Adams, but I know her as Unique.

On the rich end of town I can hear the deep shouting from a seemingly loving house. It's only when I look up at the top window of the three storied building that I see what that noise is causing. The form of the body on the other side of the pane of glass is pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the torrent of blood. People will see that beautiful yet broken face tomorrow and not think twice when I know it's damaged to save the face of his mother. His name is Blaine Anderson, But I know him as Warbler.

Warbler's window isn't the only one who tells a story tonight as I walk a couple of blocks over to see a young woman screaming in anguish out of her's and throwing her phone distraught, almost hitting me. I don't call her out on it though, because unlike the rest of the world who think she is just throwing a dramatic tantrum over nothing, I see the worthlessness in her teary eyes. Her name is Rachel Berry, but I know her as Fanny.

The last troubled soul I see tonight before I take refuge under my bridge is the town's gay. He isn't the only homosexual in this town, but he's the only one who gets grief for it. I see how much everyone hates him. I also he how much he hates himself. The fresh blood dripping through his bandaged arm confirms everything for me. His name is Kurt Hummel, but I know him as Porcelain.

In these six tormented youths, I learn to appreciate my own life. I might have lost everything I own, but when I smile, the smile on my face is genuine. For the others, I know it's not. On the rare occasion where our paths have crossed, they are empathetic of my story as I am of theirs and they probably think I have it worse than them. Maybe we all believe we each have it worse and we use it as an excuse to keep playing the games we are playing. We all want to transform our lives but are too scared to administer the change or even think we are incapable or undeserving of it. So we do nothing but dream of escaping this hell.

Oh and my name is Samuel Evans but they all know me as Evan.

* * *

Please Review if you can. 

Should I continue?


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